A/N: This is almost based on a true happening - almost. And I'll never know what the human in question meant by it, either. Honour to the dead. Oh, and if you're offended by slash, kindly find something else to flame at.
He has loved many of his students over the years - it's a tragedy in the making, really, though no-one knows but him.
He wonders, though, what would happen if he flouted convention - not to mention the law - and followed his feelings. But his self-restraint is strong - save for the way his eyes light on the boy as he enters and leaves, one would never know. It is difficult, but the man has grown accustomed, over the years, to his hard, cold, and lonely life.
Still, he wonders and he wishes. He does not hope; there is no hope for him. There never is, not in truth.
The boy he teaches does not know or suspect, but the reason the man is so hard on the boy is that he detests seeing potential wasted, especially in one he cares for so.
Sometimes, in the dark of night when his soul lies bare and he cannot sleep for his thoughts, he considers the one option which would bring him relief - his own death.
Sometimes, his hoarse and strangled sobs are all he can hear. Sometimes, he catches himself staring at the veins in his arm, or stroking the great arteries in his throat, or holding the bottle of sleeping pills that he owns but never uses.
The man does not realize it, but it is a combination of cowardice and strength that keeps him from taking the final step - from bleeding himself out or taking those pills. Cowardice because, like most men, he fears the unknown that lies after death - strength because he knows that the years will fade his grief, until he can find a new source of suffering.
Of course it is a tragedy - it always is - but it is these little tragedies that strengthen a man and give him the will to bear his life, and to finally face his death with dignity and calm.